Mrs. Evans burst into my bedroom and slammed a mug of tea down on my night table. “They’ve eloped!”
She thrust back the curtains sending the metal runners screeching along the rusty rails. Sunlight streamed through my window as I tried to shake off a bad night’s sleep.
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” she cried. “They’ve eloped!”
“Who?”
“Olive Larch and Douglas Fleming, of course!” Mrs. Evans perched on the edge of my bed. Her dentures clicked into overdrive. “My Lenny was in on it. He said Dougie swore him to secrecy.”
“It’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?” I sat up, instantly awake, and reached for my morning cuppa.
“They were all over each other at the Gala,” said Mrs. Evans. “Didn’t you notice?”
“Yes, but even so,” I said, “his wife’s hardly been dead a week.”
“Frankly, dear, when you reach a certain age, you have—”
“To take love when you can. I know.”
“Exactly!” Mrs. Evans unnecessarily lowered her voice. “Though I daresay he’ll be widowed again soon and then he’ll be sitting pretty. No more money problems for him.”
“Why do you say that?” I said sharply.
“Olive Larch is very rich . . . and very ill.”
“I know she suffers from panic attacks.”
“She’s very, very ill.” Mrs. Evans folded her hands in her lap and gave me a knowing look. There was a pregnant pause.
“How ill?” And how strange that Barbara had never implied Olive’s poor health was that serious.
“I’m not one to gossip, dear but . . .” Another pregnant pause.
“You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know,” I said, trying one of Dad’s brilliant tactics for getting information. Reverse psychology.
“You didn’t hear this from me. . . .” Mrs. Evans lowered her voice again. “Olive Larch has a potentially lethal ventricular arrhythmia.”
“A what?”
“If she gets an emotionally mediated adrenergic surge, she could die.”
Any doubts I’d harbored as to why Mrs. Evans had been fired from Dr. Frost’s employ for going through patients confidential files, now vanished. “You’re saying she has heart problems?” I wondered if Fleming knew this. Was it possible he was even more of a cold-blooded killer than I first feared?
“Exactly!”
A cunning plan began to form in my mind. “Have they actually gone away to get married?”
“Oh yes. There’s a place in North Cornwall that does quickie weddings.”
“That’s quite a drive. Do you think they might stay overnight?”
“Oh yes. Lenny told me Dougie had booked a night at the Castle Hotel in Tintagel. Four-poster bed and all the trimmings.”
“That’s great,” I said, realizing it really was great. My prayers had been answered. With Fleming away, it gave me the perfect opportunity to head down to Gipping-on-Plym Power Services office. “As you said, Mrs. E., everyone has a right to happiness.”
“Let’s hope she gets to enjoy some of it,” Mrs. Evans said darkly. “My friend Joan had a bad heart and died when—”
Fortunately my mobile rang. I could see that my landlady was eager to settle in for a long gossip about medical ailments but I was anxious to get cracking. Snatching the phone off the nightstand, a quick glimpse showed the number was from Dairy Cottage. Blast! I really did not want to talk to Eunice Pratt right now.
“I’d better answer this, Mrs. Evans. Sorry. It’s important.” Instead I hit the “ignore” button saying, “Vicky Hill, speaking. Yes. No. Yes. Oh really,” and scrambled out of bed.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Evans mouthed dramatically and tiptoed toward the door.
Once I was out of earshot, I checked my voice mail. As I feared, it was Eunice saying she hadn’t had the courage to tell Robin about the CCTV and “would you do it, Vicky because he likes you.”
How ironic that a mere three days ago I would be crying with happiness upon hearing those very words. Now I wouldn’t mind if I never saw him ever again. Or her. The thought of telling Eunice that Fleming and Olive had eloped filled me with dread. I resolved to deal with that problem tomorrow.
Half an hour later after devouring a boiled egg on toast—and hearing more details on Joan’s fatal heart attack—I left Factory Terrace. As I passed The Copper Kettle I noticed the picture window blinds were down. A sheet of paper was pinned to the door.
Curious, I stopped. Apparently, Topaz was closed until further notice for “personal business.” Much as I appreciated her assistance in spying on Annabel, I didn’t think it a good idea to turn away what few customers she actually had.
Resolving to talk to her about her business acumen later, I set off for Middle Gipping and reached the G.O.P.P.S office shortly before ten.
To my surprise, the trademark blue-and-white-striped barber-styled revolving pole was not revolving and the G.O.P.P.S. Venetian blinds on the front door were down, too. Was everyone away on personal business?
Puzzled, I double-checked the sign and yes, opening hours were between nine and three and the office closed for lunch from twelve to one-thirty. Melanie should definitely be there.
How typical and infuriating. While the cat’s away, the mouse will play. I hammered on the door but there was no reply.
Taking the narrow path alongside the building, I trotted toward the car park to the rear where a familiar silver Saab 9.3 sat next to Melanie Carew’s dark red Vauxhall Astra. One thing I made a point of knowing was who drove which car in Gipping-on-Plym.
I had no idea that Dr. Frost paid his electricity bills personally.
Returning to the front door I pulled out my mobile and dialed the main number. Blast! My call went straight to the answering machine. I was beginning to get worried and called a second time, then a third. On the fourth try, a breathless female voice gasped, “Good morning. Gipping-on-Plym Power Services.”
“Is that you, Melanie?” I said. “The front door is locked. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I could hear some sort of rustle in the background. “I’m stocktaking.”
Stocktaking what? Electricity? “I need to talk to you.”
“Can you come back later?”
“I’m sure Mr. Fleming wouldn’t be happy if he knew you weren’t opening on time.”
More rustling in the background, then, “I’ll be right there.”
After some fumbling, Melanie opened the door. Her eyes were bright and her red hair looked distinctly dishev eled. I noticed that her floral blouse had been wrongly buttoned up. “Sorry,” was all she said.
I may still be a virgin but I wasn’t born yesterday. Good grief! Was the Rubenesque Melanie Carew Dr. Frost’s mystery woman? It just goes to show that Annabel’s Cosmopolitan pout, long legs, and big boobs didn’t automatically guarantee fidelity.
Once inside, I looked for signs of illicit hanky-panky, but there was none—nor was there any sign of Dr. Frost. No doubt he’d sneaked out the rear exit like the coward I knew him to be.
Melanie sauntered back to her desk and sat down. She picked up her handbag and began rummaging around inside. I recognized it as one of Annabel’s—a fake Chanel. It looked like Dr. Frost was a cheapskate as well as a cheater and had probably filched it for his new lover.
Melanie took out a compact mirror and lipstick and began to repair her makeup. “I’m afraid Mr. Fleming isn’t here, today.”
“It’s you I want to talk to,” I said, sliding into the seat opposite.
“About what?”
I tried to sound casual. “I saw Dr. Frost’s car outside.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said quickly.
“He’s caught on camera.” I gestured to the CCTV monitors behind her. Perhaps they were a good idea after all. “Look, I know about you and Dr. Frost and honestly, it’s none of my business.”
“It’s just a bit of fun,” said Melanie, but she looked worried. “If my husband finds
out, he’ll kill him.”
“Where is your husband?”
“On an oil rig out in the North Sea,” she said. “His friends call him Pit-bull Pete.”
“Your husband is Pit-bull Pete?” I looked at Melanie with sympathy. Pete Carew was renowned for picking fights in pubs just for the fun of it.
“You were seen at the Imperial Hotel in Plymouth on Thursday April the second.” The first was a bluff, the second, was true. I’d double-checked my notebook for the date Sammy died.
“I don’t see how.” Melanie frowned. “I took the service elevator.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that Dr. Frost has a live-in girl-friend who actually happens to be my friend.” I realized I was beginning to feel angry and didn’t know why. I didn’t like Dr. Frost and I didn’t particularly like the way Annabel exploited her boyfriends but it wasn’t as if they were married. However, Melanie was.
“Jack told me he’s been trying to end their relationship but she just won’t let go.”
I, too, had suspected as much. “If he’s not faithful to Annabel,” I said, “I’m afraid he’s not going to be faithful to you.”
“Faithful? Who said anything about wanting him to be faithful?” Melanie gave me a look as if I’d just suggested she cut off both her legs. “Jack and I meet every Thursday at the Imperial for a bit of slap and tickle. More often if he can get away. Besides, he’s helping me lose some weight.”
“Okay. Right.” I tried—but failed—to push the image of a naked Melanie slapping and tickling Dr. Frost in a five-star hotel bed.
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” she said. “I don’t want Pete to serve time again. He’d lose his job.”
“I’ll you what,” I said, “let me take a look at those CCTV monitors and we’ll call it quits.”
“Why?” she scowled. “You don’t believe I’m having an affair with Jack, do you? You think I’m too fat.”
“I don’t think anything of the sort,” I said firmly. “I’m trying to help Pam Green and Barbara Meadows find out who broke into the Bards storage unit. Those cameras cover part of the industrial estate as well as your car park.”
“Sorry. I’m just a bit sensitive about my size,” said Melanie.
“I’m sensitive about having a flat chest,” I said. “I don’t think any woman is happy with what she looks like.”
“Except Annabel Lake,” Melanie said ruefully. “And even she can’t keep her man.” We both laughed at Annabel’s expense, which oddly enough, made me feel disloyal.
“It’s going to take you a long time to go through all that footage,” said Melanie. “Can I make you a cuppa?”
I sat down with a delicious mug of tea and a plate of digestives—Melanie abstained, claiming, “Jack has me on a no-carb diet,” and started going through all the footage.
There was far more comings and goings in Gipping-on-Plym Services car park than I’d expected, mainly because customers patronizing next-door’s building supplier tended to use it as an overflow car park. As for the Gipping Bards storage unit, no one went near it.
Shortly after lunch—Melanie had kindly run out and brought me back a chicken salad—I hit “stop.” Pressing “play-rewind-play” over and over again, I tried to make sense of what I saw.
The time code on the footage said eleven thirty P.M. and it was dated two weeks ago. Even though it was night, the halogen lighting installed throughout the industrial estate—and the subject of much controversy by Gipping’s Eco-warriors—clearly showed the arrival of a Range Rover with the number plate, SCLTT.
Mesmerized, I watched the car pull up to the Bards storage unit and two figures get out. Fleming—from the front passenger side, and a woman—dressed in a coat and woolen hat—from the driver’s.
Fleming went around to the rear of the car and opened up the boot. He clambered in—presumably to fold down the rear passenger seat—while the woman unlocked the unit door and vanished inside. Fleming followed.
Both returned carrying the coffin between them and slid it into the rear of the Range Rover. The woman got back into the driver’s seat while Fleming closed the car boot then locked the storage unit door. He returned to the front passenger side, slid in, and the Range Rover sped away.
I began to feel light-headed. Surely, the mystery woman couldn’t be Scarlett Fleming? The footage was recorded well before she died. Was Fleming so heartless that he tricked her into stealing her own coffin?
“Are you all right?” said Melanie, standing over me holding two mugs of tea. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
“It’s a bit hot in here,” I said. “Can you take a look at this for a moment?”
Melanie put the tea down. I replayed only the part where the couple got out of the car and unlocked the storage unit.
“That’s Mr. and Mrs. Fleming,” she said.
“Are you positive?”
“Oh yes. She won’t let anyone drive her Range Rover. Not even Dougie,” Melanie said. “Isn’t that the Bard’s storage unit?”
“Looks like they had a key,” I said. “Mind if I borrow the tape to show Pam and Barbara there was no break-in, after all?”
“Is Jack on that tape, too?” she said suspiciously. “You’re not going to try and blackmail me, are you?”
I hadn’t been planning on it. “I won’t, if you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions. Truthfully.”
Melanie gave a heavy sigh. “I can’t refuse, can I?”
“Did you book Go-Go Gothic for Mrs. Fleming’s funeral?”
“No. I don’t do personal stuff. Once you start down that road, you’ll soon be picking up their dry cleaning and feeding the dog.”
“You’ve worked for Douglas Fleming for years,” I said. “What was their marriage like?”
“I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but”—Melanie thought for a moment—“Scarlett was a bossy cow. She always put on the lady-bountiful act around other people but she bullied poor Dougie. I don’t know how he stood it.”
A shiver ran down my spine. Perhaps he hadn’t? Perhaps she pushed him to his absolute limit.
“Did you know that Mr. Fleming is marrying Olive Larch today?” I said.
“Olive Larch? I don’t believe it!” Melanie’s jaw dropped. Since she hadn’t been at Friday’s Gala—nor had Dr. Frost for that matter—she wouldn’t have seen Fleming and Larch together. “I always thought if he ever remarried, it would be that awful Eunice.”
“What about the restraining order?”
“That was Scarlett’s doing.” Melanie retrieved a plastic bag of celery from her desk drawer. “A couple of months ago—right out of the blue—Eunice started coming here a lot.” I cringed knowing full well this would have been after I’d implied Fleming still had feelings for her. “They’d been school sweethearts, you know,” Melanie went on. “Eunice made him laugh. I knew he liked her, but God knows why. Still, takes all sorts. Then one day, Scarlett got wind of what was going on and put a stop to it.”
“This is great. You’ve been really helpful.”
“Oh! It’s nearly three. I must close up,” said Melanie. She paused. “Funny he should end up marrying Olive, though. I never saw Dougie as the gold-digging type. Just goes to show you never really know someone.”
On that score, I couldn’t have agreed with her more. Popping the tape into my pocket I thanked her and left.
The next few hours dragged as I waited for darkness to fall. Even though I knew Headcellars was empty, it would be foolish to attempt a daytime break-in.
I spent my time thinking about the Douglas Fleming I thought I knew and liked. Dad, too, said no one really knows anyone. As I heard giggles and “You are a devil, you are,” coming from the Evans’s bedroom, I was beginning to think he was right.
32
Headcellars was located at the bottom of a dell and reached via a long, twisty narrow lane flanked by overgrown hedgerows.
I’d never been spooked by the darkness. I wasn’t superstitious nor did I
believe in ghosts but I had to admit as I came upon the Tudor house silhouetted against the night sky, it was definitely creepy.
Clouds scudded across the sky showing glimpses of a three-quarter moon, which illuminated Scarlett’s famous—and now tortured—maze garden. I could quite see why she’d been furious with Dave and his jumping friends. Although the carefully clipped sculptured animals remained untouched, the neat box hedges in geometrical shapes lay in ruins across the front lawn.
Leaving my moped next to the stone wall on the left side of the house, I was struck by the utter stillness of the night. All I could hear was the sound of a few cows munching, along with the occasional moo coming from the field next door. On the horizon I could see the lights of Dairy Cottage.
My thoughts flew back to Mary Berry and the morning she claimed Fleming gave her a cheery wave as he loaded his wife’s coffin into the American Cadillac. Why did he want Eunice to know that Scarlett was dead if he already planned on marrying someone else? It didn’t make sense.
I turned my attention back to the house and breaking in. Under the gables was a fancy alarm unit. I’d expected as much and had come prepared, silently thanking Dad for all those hours of training. Naturally, I was also dressed for the part in black leggings, black polo sweater, black balaclava, and thin, black gloves. I wore a fanny pack around my waist holding a Mini Maglite, Swiss Army penknife, screwdriver, and a wire coat hanger.
I started off by walking around the perimeter hoping to find a stray window open. Often with listed buildings, there were so many nooks, crannies, and windows dotted here and there, not all could be armed.
At the rear of the house was a forecourt in front of a converted barn that now served as a two-car garage. A decorative wishing well formed a centerpiece. Its tiled pitched roof covered in honeysuckle.
Fleming’s black RS Audi Avant was gone—presumably he’d taken that to Cornwall—but Scarlett’s expensive Range Rover stood outside. Considering she was the only one who drove it, I was surprised it was not in the barn.
Retrieving my Mini Maglite from my fanny pack, I played the beam along the redbrick walls and up the side of the house. A nightlight burned in an upstairs window then suddenly went off, only to reappear in another part of the house a few moments later.
Expose! Page 22